


Fix-It Fic

by chewysugar



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Everyone Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, M/M, Meta, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Dick and Jason learn that Tim likes to write fan fiction. As per usual with the Bat Family, it turns out to be more complicated than that.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 2
Kudos: 85





	Fix-It Fic

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely VE Schwab's fault. I read The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue and it hurt me in a heart that is falling apart by the chewing gum currently keeping it together. 
> 
> So if this rubs you the wrong way...don't blame it on me.

“I can’t believe you would ask me to do that, Jason.”

“C’mon, Dickybird, there ain’t nothing wrong with it. It’s natural.”

They’re in bed together, leaning against the pillows, but there’s a gulf between them as big as the San Andreas fault. Arms crossed, Dick stares at the wall, eyes narrowed, heart beating in rhythm of this ire. After everything they’ve been through, he can’t believe Jason would have the balls to ask this of him.

“Nature has nothing to do with it. It’s a violation of Tim’s privacy.”

Jason scoffs. “Not it ain’t. Those stories are for public consumption. It’s not my fault I found them.”

“Yeah, but still, fan fiction’s kind of personal. You wouldn’t want him finding anything private of ours would you?”

Rubber a hand behind his neck, Jason says, “What, you mean like all those little porno vids? Not like it would shock the kid. Besides, from what I’ve seen, his little stories are all about us.”

Dick kicks the blankets off in disgust. “That is what makes it wrong.”

“Not us,” Jason concedes. “But, y’know—them. Nightwing and Red Hood.” He chuckles. “Still think it’s pretty cute, though.”

Dick is pacing over the carpet, his skin prickling. “It is not cute! He’s practically our brother, and it’s gross to go around doing things like that! Almost as gross as reading them.”

“It’s either this, or I tease him relentlessly about it for the next few weeks.”

Shooting Jason a gorgon’s eye, Dick says, “Or you could just not?”

“No dice, babe. It’s my duty as the older brother and the replaced.” He pulls the covers back a little more. “If it’s getting up your craw this much, then forget I said anything.”

Dick’s gaze doesn’t soften. “You’re only saying that because you’re afraid of sleeping alone.” And out comes the puppy eyes—the ones that, despite Jason’s razor sharp edges, still work to prime effect. It’s the broken little boy look—the kind of thing that made Bruce decide to pluck him off the streets in the first place all those years ago.

The kind of look that made Dick fall in love with him despite himself.

“You’re not fair.” He climbs back under the covers, but rolls over. Don’t underestimate the importance of body language when it comes to couple squabbles.

He feels the mattress shift—knows Jason is braced on one arm and looking down at him. “You mad at me?”

Dick sighs. “No. Just please drop it okay? You go after Tim enough as it is. Don’t bring it up with him.”

A second ticks by.

“Will you spank me if I say no?”

Dick rolls his eyes, and pretends to have fallen asleep. He knows Jason won’t believe him. But he’s not in the mood to pursue the subject right now. He knows that the longer he lets the charade go, the less inclined to keep waiting Jason will be. And eventually, the mattress dips. Jason starts to breathe evenly.

But sleep, though it was the one thing Dick tried to masquerade, isn’t forthcoming. He lays awake, staring at the wall. Ignoring something—bullies, pain or demonic spirits—is pointless. It only makes it worse. Try as he might, he can’t shake the sick curiosity burning through him.

What kinds of stories does Tim write? What kind of writer is he? Dick’s checked the kid’s homework enough over the years that he’s pretty sure he’d make a damn good author if it weren’t for his heroic extracurriculars.

It’s no good.

With a sigh of self-disgust, Dick prowls from the bed. He moves with all proper slowness and stealth. Jason catching him with his pants down in this regard would be beyond tolerance.

He sneaks down the hallway and towards one of the spare studies on the second floor. The Manor is sleeping soundly—Bruce, on patrol, being the evident exception. Dick is un-accosted as he tiptoes towards the desk, and boots the computer up. He feels all kinds of wrong and fifty shades of hypocritical—the grown man equivalent of sneaking to the bathroom with a skin mag. The curiosity is like the worst unwanted hard-on: if he doesn’t deal with it as quickly as possible, it’ll be a thousand times worse later.

His fingers fly over the keys as he types in the pen-name Jason told him— _cardinal_rule_. It’s pretty funny, given Tim’s alter-ego, and Dick chuckles a little. Tim’s account is the first listed in the search engine. Clicking on it leads Dick to an author page.

Dick’s eyes widen. Tim’s written for more than just Nightwing and Red Hood. There’s a solid couple dozen stories written since a few years ago—back when Dick and Jason went public. It’s a relief to find that the ones regarding them aren’t listed under the more explicit material—although Tim certainly has written his fair share of erotic content.

Automatically, Dick clicks on one story. It’s short, under a thousand words, but it isn’t about Nightwing or Red Hood. It’s about Batman. His eyes scan the page, and he feels his chest tighten with pity.

Tim has Bruce nailed to a tee. He doesn’t reveal anything about secret identities—its just Batman. It’s a sort of character study, and it has an upbeat ending involving the Caped Crusader being given a night to himself.

Dick clicks on another story—this one a Nightwing and Red Hood piece. There’s some heavy making out, and again, insight into them that can only be chalked up to a healthy cocktail of Tim’s investigative skills and his insight into his older brothers. Again, it has a positive, almost sappy ending.

Not being well-versed in the subject of fan fiction, Dick nonetheless figures it’s an easy way to transmute frustration into a better version of events. It’s a writers way of making things into what they prefer—a sort of playground in prose.

At least, that’s what it is when it isn’t just an excuse for porn.

Still gripped by his own morbid curiosity, Dick reads one of Tim’s steamy stories. He’s too disturbed by the fact that his little brother is using words like cock, thrust and cum to feel remotely turned on. But it’s pretty good. Maybe the kid should hang up the underroos and self-publish erotic novels? Whatever the case, it’s going to be a rum-do looking at him across the breakfast table in the morning.

Dick continues poring through each short little snippet. And the more he reads, the more his mind—so primed to put together pieces of evidence others might overlook—makes a connection.

All of the stories have happy endings. If not outrightly optimistic, there’s a sort of mundane pleasantness to them. The subjects never spiral into any kind of self-loathing, and if they do, it’s healed—the comfort part of the hurt-comfort tag. The sort of moral grayness that exists in real life is only a backdrop—a base wash to the finer details of each story.

He wants everyone to be happy. Tim doesn’t have room for pain with no remedy, or the cruel caprices of real life.

It’s this sudden surmise that makes Dick look away from the screen. There’s a stone in his throat. For no reason other than the conclusion he’s come to, he feels like he’s going to tear up. Because of course Tim would want the best for everyone, even the people he hates. Out of everyone under this roof—and those driving the streets of Gotham in souped-up military grade vehicles—Tim believes in happily ever after. He wants the gentle fade to white as opposed to the blackout or the film being burned.

Dick rubs a hand over his face, then shuts the computer off. He goes back down the empty corridor, filled with the shadows of Wayne Manor, and to the bedroom he shares with Jason. He wonders if Jason put it together. He probably only thought it a laugh that “the kid” was getting his rocks off writing porny one-shots.

But there’s so much more to it than that. Dick wishes it had just been pure smut, but of course he can’t stop his detective’s mind from stacking the blocks and making them fit. Reality is so much easier to digest for him because he’s many things Tim isn’t—older being the primary factor. Not that Tim doesn’t get that life isn’t all sunshine and roses. But he resists more. He’s still resisting, even after all these years, and it plum breaks Dick’s heart in two.

He sinks to the edge of the bed, buries his head in his hands, and starts to focus on his breathing. But it’s damn near impossible to keep it together. He keeps coming back to those stories that Tim wrote. To the subtext. To the longing for things to be easy for everyone.

It’s only when Jason’s hand closes over his shoulder that he realizes he’s shaking from the effort to suppress.

“Dick?”

Dick shakes his head.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

How can he put it into words? Jason would understand, because he’s neither that emotionally dense nor blocked. But he can’t figure out how to phrase it, and he’d have to admit that he just did the thing he told Jason not to do.

So he takes a leaf from Tim’s digital book.

Let it be happy, even just for tonight.

He falls against Jason, collapsing into him like a wave.

“What’s going—

“Just…just don’t let go of me right now, yeah?”

Automatically, Jason’s arms wrap Dick round. Dick doesn’t dissolve, he just settles. Jason’s warm and strong and scarred, and all his to lean on right now. He presses his lips to Jason’s ch

* * *

“What are you writing, squirt?”

Tim pauses in the act of typing. Jason’s sitting across the breakfast table, a steaming cup of coffee beside him. For once, he’s not hellbound on taking the piss out of his little brother.

It’s on the tip of Tim’s tongue to be truthful. He wonders how wide Jason’s eyes would get if he said, “Oh, just a piece of fan fiction about you and Dick.”

But it’s not worth the headache.

“Finishing in essay on Diderot.”

There’s the casual brow arch. “Well, did he or didn’t he?”

Tim sighs in disgust. “You’re not funny.” He looks at the words he’s written, and wonder if he’s lost his mind. It’s a bit of a screwjob, writing something like this. But he’s been told to write what he feels, and there are days like today when he feels like words written over another story. He needs to get that feeling out somehow.

“I am a goddamn comedic genius,” Jason says. As Dick walks in, he adds, “Ain’t that right, babe?”

“Sure is,” Dick says, giving Jason a quick peck on the head as he makes for the fresh mountain of fruit.

Tim examines his story once more, then looks from Jason—now absorbed in something on his phone—and then Dick, slicing the rind off a kiwi. There’s something to this snapshot—the mundanity of it.

He shakes his head, and resumes writing.

It’s real life, and he likes his version of events better.

At least he can control things here.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure it doesn't make any sense but I wrote this in a minor fugue state. 
> 
> Also don't read Addie LaRue unless you want to be torn to shreds from the inside by a legion of all the ugly feelings you've been trying to suppress since November of 2019.


End file.
